


The Fuck You Were Talking About

by LadyDrace



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Clothed Sex, Dry Humping, First Time Together, Frottage, Future Fic, Growly Derek, Hand Jobs, Hickeys, M/M, Stiles is Legal, Thigh Holsters, Wall Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-10
Updated: 2014-09-10
Packaged: 2018-02-16 21:06:42
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,650
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2284467
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LadyDrace/pseuds/LadyDrace
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Stiles grows up and gets a gun. And a holster. His asshole ways don't change one bit, though. Fuck Derek's life.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Fuck You Were Talking About

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Stephcake](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Stephcake/gifts).



> This was written as a long-promised gift for [my lovely internet wife](http://stephstiel.tumblr.com/). Sorry it took so long, sweetie! Unbetaed.

“Who,” Derek panted, “who let you... let you go and get all... _fuck._ ”

 

Stiles smirked infuriatingly, and Derek bit down on his neck in retaliation. Not that it shut him up in the slightest.

 

“I'm totally in favor of anything that can be replaced by the word _fuck_. Also, no one _lets_ me do anything. I do what I want.”

 

Derek groaned and shoved his leg in between Stiles', which at least made him gasp, the little shit.

 

“The fact that you're secretly enough of a nerd to get annoyed at that reference is such a turn-on to me, I swear to God.”

 

“Jesus, _stop talking_!” Derek growled, and _hello_ , that got him something. That quick intake of breath was sweet music to Derek's ears, and he went back to work on the enormous hickey he'd started on Stiles' pale neck.

 

“Not a chance in- _oh!_ ”

 

Oh, yes, growling definitely had an effect. Stiles was shamelessly humping Derek's leg now, and despite the fact that werewolves naturally ran hotter than humans, it felt like he was dragging a branding iron across Derek's thigh. They weren't even remotely horizontal, and Derek already felt that now would be a good time to come his brains out. Just grinding up against this wall here seemed as good a plan as any.

 

And, naturally, it was all Stiles' fault.

 

Because Stiles was the most obnoxious little asshole on the planet, and had, of course, noticed how Derek's eye caught on certain... features. As Stiles grew taller and his shoulders broadened and his body firmed up, Derek's otherwise impeccable control started to waver. And when Stiles finally retired his trusty old bat and switched to guns as his weapon of choice, it was the beginning of the end, really.

 

There was just something about the focus that descended on Stiles as soon as he took aim. His usual flailing seemed to vanish entirely for the few seconds it took to line up his shot and squeeze the trigger without hesitation, killing with a lack of remorse that was both terrifying and comforting to Derek.

 

The real kicker, though, was the day Stiles showed up for training wearing a holster strapped tightly around his thigh. He still wasn't used to it, but after barely an hour of training, he seemed to adjust, and it _suited_ him. It really did. Distressingly so. Distressing for Derek, anyway. Because Stiles caught Derek staring _once_ , and after that there was no peace to be had.

 

Derek had already been struggling to keep his gaze from dragging a little too slowly across Stiles' frame, getting stuck on little things like the shape of his arm or the bend of his fingers. But when Stiles realized that Derek's eyes couldn't help but dart down to the holster every time Stiles let his fingers glide over it, touching his gun or adjusting the straps, that's when Derek was doomed, basically. Because after that, casual touches became _porn_.

 

Stiles would prop his foot up on crates or chairs, leaning on his knee, looking casual as anything, but his thigh would flex and his jeans would stretch taut, and for someone who'd spent the majority of his teens worried that he'd never get laid, he had a remarkable talent for making himself look alluring. He'd fondle his gun handle, or let his fingers slip under the straps, just the tip of a finger, as if it was asking permission to go further. Like perhaps he would with the waistband of someone's ( _Derek's_ ) underwear. It was massively frustrating, and Derek spent all of five minutes deluding himself that maybe Stiles wasn't doing it on purpose, but then the little shit caught his eye and _grinned_ at him.

 

And that's how they ended up here. Scott had barely disappeared out the door as the last to leave before Derek had Stiles slammed up against the nearest wall, and he could not bring himself to care if Scott got an earful. He was goddamn werewolf, he could run the hell away.

 

“Why don't you- _oh, fuck_ , have a bed here, dude? Major flaw in your plan, FYI,” Stiles panted, and Derek growled again to shut him up.

 

“Don't call me dude.”

 

“Oh yeah? Then what? Muffin? Honey? Sweetheart? Babycak _-ah!_ ”

 

Derek allowed himself a self-satisfied chuckle, because this was the best ever. He'd finally found the key to shutting Stiles up. And the fact that it also made him whimper and rut mindlessly against Derek was only a plus.

 

He hooked his fingers under the top strap of the holster and hoisted Stiles' leg up higher, so they could press together more tightly, and Derek had to stop his near-continuous growling so he could moan, because _damn_.

 

“All right, I will admit that you're right about this one thing. We should have a bed here.”

 

“Changed my mind,” Stiles whined against Derek's shoulder, blunt nails digging into the leather of his jacket hard enough to make it creak. “Here's fine. So fucking fine, oh, _God_!”

 

It was kind of melting Derek's brain that it could be this hot. He'd thought he he'd gotten past the point in life where anything you could get was amazing, and a stiff breeze could get him going. He was in his late twenties, dammit, rutting up against a wall should not be enough to get him off.

 

But... it was _Stiles_. And evidently that made all the difference, because Derek didn't even care that his dick was being chafed to hell, leaking against his zipper as they humped clumsily together, because he was _almost there_.

 

As if he was a freakin' mind-reader, that was the exact moment Stiles wormed his long fingers between them, and undid Derek's pants with a dexterity he could really use at other, more life-threatening, points in his life. But all that became beautifully unimportant two seconds later when Stiles' warm hand closed tightly around Derek.

 

“Oh, _Jesus_ ,” Stiles groaned. “You asshole, of course you're going commando, _ugh_ , I hate you so much.”

 

Derek hadn't given much thought to that part of his dressing habits, opting for less clothes to lose when he needed to shift to full wolf in a hurry, but Stiles' reaction to it was extremely gratifying. And for future reference he would remember the easy access.

 

“No, you don't,” Derek said, voice rusty and thick as he panted and shoved his hips forward and into the tight grip.

 

“I do. Seriously, you're such an asshole, I don't even... _fuck_ , oh, _God_ , if you don't touch me in the next two seconds I will never blow you.”

 

It hadn't even entered Derek's mind that there might be something else for them after this, but the thought slammed into him with blinding force. Stiles on his knees, his lips around Derek's dick, tongue wet and lewd. Yeah, Derek didn't take more than a second and a half to get his hand into Stiles' pants.

 

They were clinging to each other clumsily, Stiles with one arm hooked around Derek's neck in an iron grip, and the other snaking down between them, his elbow knocking against Derek's awkwardly. And Derek was still clutching the thigh-holster, using it for leverage, not caring in the least that the gun had long since been knocked to the floor, skidding away into a dark corner. If he'd had the brain power left to give it any thought he would have applauded Stiles for being strict about keeping the safety on at all times, but, as it was, all he could really think about was how fucking _close_ he was.

 

“Yes,” he choked out as Stiles added a truly masterful twist of his wrist on every upstroke. “Yes, _Jesus_ , _yes!_ ”

 

“You close? Please, _fuck_ , tell me you're close, cause I'm... _shit_ , I'm _right there_.”

 

“Yeah. Yeah, just... _yeah_ ,” Derek groaned, stupid with it all, and grunted almost painfully as his orgasm ripped through him.

 

Stiles was still nearly vibrating with it, and Derek sped up his own movements slightly, as restricted as they were in Stiles still buttoned pants. They hadn't even kissed yet, so Derek decided it was about time, and licked his way wetly into Stiles' open, panting mouth, growling deep in his chest, just because he now knew how much Stiles liked it.

 

The result was immediate and impressive as Stiles mewled against his lips, and came so hard his knees buckled. If he hadn't been pretty much straddling Derek's thigh, he would probably have fallen to the floor, and for a moment he hung there, suspended only by Derek's knee and his grip on the thigh-holster.

 

“Holy fucking shit,” Stiles wheezed. “If I'd known you had a gun fetish I would have stuck my goddamn bat in the closet years ago.”

 

“Wouldn't have worked,” Derek mumbled sluggishly against Stiles' neck, mouthing dazedly at the impressive bruise there. “You weren't all... _like this_ , then.”

 

“Oh. _Oh_ , was that the _fuck_ you mentioned earlier?”

 

Derek snorted. “Yes, Stiles, that was the _fuck_ I mentioned earlier.”

 

“Huh.”

 

There was blessed silence and mutual afterglow for a whole minute before Stiles had to start talking again. “So if I go back to my bat now-”

 

“I'll whack you over the head with it.”

 

“Aha. And... if I decide to not wear this neat holster anymore?”

 

“I'll live.”

 

“ _Huh_.”

 

Derek sighed. He could sense the stupid questions coming from a mile away. “What, Stiles.”

 

“Well... just... if it's not a gun kink...”

 

“Ugh, Stiles, if you're about to ask if I like you for your sexy holster or your dumbass self, I'm gonna have to throw your threat right back at you.”

 

“Uhh...”

 

“I'll never blow you?”

 

Stiles swallowed audibly. “Oh.”

 

“Yeah, _oh._ ”

 

Another wonderful moment of quiet passed.

 

“So you do think my holster is sexy, then?”

 

As it turned out, kissing worked almost as well as growling for shutting Stiles up.

 

End.

 


End file.
